


Stop Copying Me

by a_taller_tale



Series: RvB Rare Pair Week [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), M/M, Rare Pairings, RvB Rare Pair Week, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: Simmons won't stop following Wash around Blue Base.





	Stop Copying Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeuswrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeuswrites/gifts).



> Prompt from the RvB Rare Pair Week Tag: “Stop copying me.”

It was hard to think with Simmons shadowing him around the base all day. And Wash _needed_ to think to figure out a way to make sure the mantis-class military assault droid Caboose brought home didn’t kill anyone in this canyon, or their rescuers if anyone ever showed up. That would follow Wash’s luck lately.

It wasn’t just the fact that he was being followed. Caboose pre-“Freckles” had dogged his steps on and off frequently. And no matter how antagonistic Tucker had been acting lately, Tucker got lonely and frequently abandoned his training to show up wherever Wash was and chat. 

But he’d gotten used to Caboose’s heavy footfalls and bounding energy and Tucker’s quieter gait. Simmons was…twitchy. 

Jittery and nervous. He would become anxious at the drop of a hat and fidget constantly. He jumped at every sudden noise. While Red Base was undoubtedly louder—Sarge was the _worst_ neighbor—Simmons wasn’t used to living with Blue Team and the usual sounds in their base either. 

Simmons also complained, a lot. Loudly. All the time. 

Even when he was “quiet,” he was sighing or muttering to himself while he tinkered. And apparently expected to be summarily ignored. He jumped to follow every order Wash gave before the other two and then waited for praise. But he hadn’t listened to Wash ordering him to go home before he’d been locking into staying with them by Freckles’ guns. It was Simmons’ own fault he was here in the first place, and his presence was an extra complication Wash really didn’t have the extra energy to deal with. 

So Wash tried to ignore Simmons’ presence as much as he was able to with the soldier following him around the base, and fidgeting and sighing, and projecting so much nervous energy you could see it in the air around him. 

But on the second night, Wash found Simmons sitting at the table in their makeshift kitchen, blocking Wash’s access to much-needed caffeine. 

Enough was enough. Wash could tolerate a lot. But Simmons following him around for the past two days every waking hour while they were under the gun, literally, and Tucker still angry with him for trying to help them _survive_ , he should at least be able to get a midnight cup of shitty military coffee in peace. 

“Simmons. What are you _doing here?”_

Simmons jerked his head up, startled as always whenever Wash even turned a way he wasn’t expecting. Simmons’ eyes were red-rimmed and he clutched the beer he was nursing to his chest. 

_Oh._

So he hadn’t been stalking Wash for once. 

“Sir. Uh- do you- Can I do something for you? Do you need an agenda? A spreadsheet? Ammo? Someone to cue the video?” 

“Video?—Uh, no. I was just getting some coffee. And you don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Simmons.” Wash said awkwardly. 

“Sorry, Sir. Uh—Agent. Uh—you said you didn’t like D—” 

“Washington is fine,” Wash said before Simmons could say ‘dad’ again. That was so awkward. “Or just Wash.” 

He started preparing a pot of coffee while Simmons watched his every move. “I can’t believe you even found a coffee maker.” 

“Didn’t you have one?” Wash asked. “I thought we found plenty of small kitchen appliances in the wreckage.” 

“Grif tried to use it as a hot plate. It had a bad end. Sarge insisted on a funeral.” Simmons sighed almost wistfully. “I wonder what else Grif’s managed to destroy since I’ve been gone.” 

“Well, Donut and Doc are over there now. They seem…clean.” 

“But Donut’s way more destructive! I bet the silverware is completely out of order.” 

Wash thought about what order silverware might be in, and then briefly why anyone would spend time putting silverware out of order, before he decided he didn’t care. The Reds were weird. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you back to your team as soon as we figure out how to deal with… the situation.” 

The situation being Caboose’s “pet” and making sure they had radio contact with someone _competent_ enough to rescue them this time. Simmons nodded, idly ripping at the label on the beer bottle. 

It was strange how some parts of the ship were so untouched that they had found glass bottles that hadn’t been broken, and yet so many _people_ hadn’t fared the same way. 

“Simmons, why did you come over here?” 

“Sarge ordered us to spy on—to investigate—Er… to see how you were doing.” Simmons said. “Since I was over here anyway I thought I might see what you were doing differently over here. Your base is so clean.” 

Simmons was apparently a lush. There was a flush to his cheeks and he finished the beer, getting more worked up with every passing word. “Tucker bitches a lot but he actually does what you say! No one ever listens to me. People seem to respect you. I try to keep things neat and organized and they never listen to me like that… Even with all the stuff you did—” 

Wash winced and Simmons winced harder. “I mean that’s water under the bucket, Sir. Uh, bridge. I mean, uh—I didn’t—” Simmons’ fists were clenched, digging his nails into his palms and Wash remembered that. The need to please and failing miserably at every turn, but he still had no idea why Simmons was directing that feeling at _him._

The… _hero worship_ for someone who killed one of his comrades in front of him. Who interrogated him and held him hostage… Simmons was also sort of being held hostage now too. But this time it was _not_ Wash’s fault. 

A therapist probably wouldn’t think of any of that as healthy for anyone. Not that Wash put much stock in mental health professionals after the experiences he’d had. 

But there was something he should say to Simmons. 

“I never said I was… sorry, to you.” 

Simmons caught on to what he was trying to say immediately, and actually made direct eye contact so he could wave him off. “We hit you with the car afterwards. And we threw _your_ friend off a cliff. While he was trying to take my friend with him—Doesn’t matter. I know you’re still the newbie—Sir—But we don’t talk about feelings on Red Team.” 

The little show of backbone compelled Wash to sit down with him, mug of coffee in hand. Simmons started a little at the chair scraping, but didn’t seem scared. “Simmons, you’re on Blue Team right now. We sometimes talk about feelings.” 

“But I didn’t bring my calligraphy pen!” 

“—What?” He still had no idea what these guys were talking about sometimes, even after months with them. It’s like their experiences had become an entire inner world he wasn’t quite a part of yet, but for good or ill it felt like he was getting there. “Nevermind. You don’t need a calligraphy pen. I…owe you my time if you want it.” 

“How do you get people to listen to you?” Simmons blurted out eagerly. He tried to take another sip of his beer, realized it was empty and opened another. 

Tucker was going to be annoyed, but he’d been half-assing his squats lately so Wash didn’t feel the need to stop Simmons. Tucker had let him come over, so any beer he drank was on Tucker. Meanwhile, Simmons was rapt waiting for his answer. The private seemed equal parts fear and inexplicable admiration. 

Wash thought about it. “I suppose it’s… confidence and experience. I’ve proven my advice can be trusted in a military and survival context.” 

Simmons deflated. “Confidence…Okay.” 

“You might have a confidence problem, but you have a lot of experience. And you’re respected more than you think. Your team trusted you to organize their resources, and the base.” 

“Neither of them wanted to do it, and I built it under a radioactive ship engine…” 

That… was a good point. “They also came right over to rescue you.” 

“Except I committed treason again, and when Freckles showed up they ran away.” 

“Treason? Again? –Nevermind.” Oh god, he was the worst at comforting people. What would North have said? He was always better at that stuff. 

Actually, North had never successfully comforted him. And Carolina was always supportive, well until that last leg… Maybe he didn’t have the best examples. “All you can do is try, Simmons. You try a lot. Maybe they act like they don’t appreciate it, but they’ll miss everything you do for them.” 

“Yeah, I’ll get shot by the giant killer robot and then they’ll be sorry,” Simmons grumbled. 

“Why don’t we say that Sarge and Grif alone for a few days with only Donut as a buffer will straighten them out?” Wash instinctively reached out and gave Simmons’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

Simmons almost dropped his beer, eyes widening, ears and cheeks going redder than just the flush from the alcohol. “Um.” 

Maybe giving him some one-on-one time could be good for both of them. Simmons was savoring the attention, and he seemed a lot more relaxed around Wash now. It would be strategic to have an ally among the Reds once they got Simmons back to his team. 

“You should get some sleep,” Wash said. “After Caboose gives us our orders in the morning, maybe I’ll show you… _the journal_.” 

Simmons perked up. “The journal?” 

“It’s more of an organizational system. Sections for supplies on hand, training schedules, strategies for rescue…” 

Simmons’ fingers started twitching. “Organized alphabetically?” 

“Color coded.” 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Simmons moaned. 

“Tomorrow,” Wash promised. 


End file.
